


et si je mourais demain

by thecinemashow



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M, Slow Burn, biplanes babey, specifically a WWI aviation au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-10-17 10:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecinemashow/pseuds/thecinemashow
Summary: “Do you suppose God is up there with us? Protecting us while we fly?”“God always looks after His children.”“God didn’t protect Hawker. Who’s to say He’ll save us, Sledgehammer?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright . i just really like ww1 aviation okay. so i had to do an au.
> 
> i did a bunch of research for this (but i still probably missed some stuff so i'm sorry to anyone who's a huge ww1 buff) but i had to take some liberties w/ it here and there,, it pains me but it's what i had to do for my boys.
> 
> i haven't written anything very substantial for a while so i apologize if this is pretty wonky. je suis trying.

**June 1916**

The rain in England never stopped.

From the moment Eugene stepped off the ship at Liverpool and boarded a train destined to some faraway location called Farnborough, the rain had not ceased. It drummed against the roof of the train and streaked across the windows, blurring the outside landscape of rolling green hills and the occasional farm.

Now and then, the endless expanse would be broken as the train travelled through small towns with streets lined by buildings Eugene had only seen in old library books. He watched empty roads flicker by and spotted taverns older than anything he’d seen before packed with silhouettes swaying back and forth to a tune he could not hear.

It was unsettling peaceful. If he tweaked the environment slightly, Eugene could almost imagine he was sitting on a train chugging across the United States to the west coast. Everything within his sight was moving along at an untroubled and leisurely pace, seemingly unburdened by the events happening just hundreds of miles away.

The largest city they stopped at and the only one thus far showing any sign of war was Birmingham. As they entered the city they were greeted by large factories, imposing and billowing smoke, working double time to keep up with demand. At the train station, Eugene could see posters with British flags advertising the Royal Warwickshire Regiment plastered on walls. Several people dressed in uniforms boarded the train, some glancing between each other with looks of nervous excitement.

Eugene wasn't certain if he shared the sentiment or not.

A friendly fellow and one of the few other Americans on the train, Oswalt, sat across from Eugene, staring out the window and tracking people that walked through the station. He showed no signs of being nervous about the war nor total interest that they were on their way to engage in it.

As the train once again lurched forward and Eugene looked back toward the British recruits, he couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place. They were permitted to fight if it be on the side of the Allies, but there was a feeling of not being truly involved in the war. Hell, they didn’t even have a uniform issued by the U.S. to show they were truly about to be a part of the Great War.

Besides, Eugene had heard enough bitter comments from the Canadian troops that were on the ship with him to know a resentment toward the United States’ lack of engagement had already formed.

“Hardly seems like a country at war.” Oswalt’s voice manages to break through the cloud of thoughts surrounding Eugene. He glanced up to look out the window at yet another rolling green landscape.

“It’s quiet,” Eugene agreed.

“Most of the fighting’s on the Western Front,” a voice said. One of the Brits that had earlier boarded the train leaned back in his seat, working furiously to spark a lighter to light a cigarette that hung precariously from his mouth. “No use in looking for any battlefields here.”

A second Brit shifted in his seat to face the Americans. “Where are you lot headed?”

“Farnborough,” Eugene replied.

“No shit,” the first Brit laughed. “Royal Flying Corps?”

Oswalt nodded.

“Would you look at that, some proactive Yanks.”

A round of laughter rippled through the group, drawing a few glances from other passengers. The noise died down quickly and they once again split into small conversations.

“I’m Frank Reed,” the first Brit said, finally managing to light his cigarette. He took a drag and slowly released a cloud of smoke before nodding to his compatriot. “That bloke’s Albert Clark.”

“I’m Robert Oswalt.”

“Eugene Sledge.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Clark nodded.

A silence settled over the carriage as the ticket inspector came through a door to verify the newcomers. Eugene resigned himself to looking back out the window where the train was passing by a long row of brick houses.

The rain slowly eased up the farther south they travelled. Slowly, people emerged from their homes and went about doing menial tasks. There were people in faraway homes doing laundry, kids in nice uniforms hurrying along dirt paths, and the occasional person walking a dog, reminding Eugene of his walks with Deacon.

After the third stop in half an hour, there was a sudden commotion as an American let out a great huff of frustration and spun around to look at one of the British recruits. Clark was engrossed in a book, so the only attention he drew was that of Reed, who was working through another cigarette, and a few annoyed passengers.

“When are we supposed to be reaching Farnborough?” he asked, looking about ready to jump out of his own skin.

“What’s your name?” Reed asked around his cigarette, tucking away the lighter he had been fiddling with.

“Bill Leyden.”

“You ever flown a plane, Leyden?”

“Of course,” Leyden replied defensively. “I went through pilot training like everybody else.”

“When you’re up in those skies with one of those damn Huns on top of you, flying for your life, avoiding the anti-aircraft artillery, a two-hour train ride won’t feel like shit.”

“Bloody hell, Frank,” Clark snapped, glancing up from his book, “leave the Yank alone.”

“Fuck off, Clark.” Reed took a drag from the cigarette. “I’m just being honest.”

“Well, you can piss off with it.”

Eugene caught an amused look thrown to him from Oswalt at the bickering. He returned it with a smile, gaze trailing over his shoulder and to Leyden’s miffed expression. He had turned away from the British pilots and was looking out the window, mumbling to himself under his breath.

By the time they reached Reading, Oswalt had drifted off to sleep and Leyden had refrained from asking any more questions. Eugene had taken to jotting down small notes about the train and the British landscape in the margins of his pocket Bible.

The rain finally stopped, allowing the rumble of the train to come into greater focus. More excitement buzzed about the train as people boarded and deboarded at each stop. The longer Eugene watched, the more keyed-up the British recruits became. Clark had been reading the same page for nearly ten minutes and Reed had turned into a chimney with the number of cigarettes he’d burned through.

The time seemed to fly by and what was undoubtedly many minutes felt like mere seconds before the train was slowing once again and Eugene saw a sign reading “Farnborough.” He tucked his Bible back into his front pocket and eased himself up.

The Brits quickly went about grabbing their things and making their way off the train. Eugene watched them hurry out, waving some trailing smoke from Reed’s cigarette out of his face.

“Thought it’d never stopping raining,” Oswalt commented as he pulled his bag down. Eugene ducked slightly to peek out the window.

Clouds, but no rain.

“Let’s go.”

Eugene slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the rest of the Americans off the train and onto the platform. The stones beneath his feet were slick and the air was incredibly humid and smelled heavily of rain. They weaved through long fences directing them to a small, brick building that was just as empty on the inside as the outside platform.

The chattering voices amplified as the group squeezed inside. Weary-looking women behind a desk watched them pass through and a businessman scowled as though their very presence was an inconvenience.

After handing over his ticket to a pretty lady with a kind smile and worried eyes, Eugene made his way outside and onto the sidewalk. Outside, a large vehicle sat outside with a man yelling instructions standing at the front.

“Everyone on the coach; if there’s not room on the bottom, go up on top! Everyone hurry up!”

Based on how the clouds had grown darker in shade since their initial arrival, Eugene wasn’t surprised that the inside of the bus was completely full of people unwilling to move. Followed by a couple other stragglers, he went up the staircase on the back of the vehicle and found somewhere to stand.

The bus lurched forward slightly as it was set into motion and began chugging forward. It moved along at a slow pace, allowing Eugene to take in the town. People stepped out onto their front steps to wave to them as they passed, smiling and sending words of encouragement.

“Think they know we ain’t British?” Eugene asked.

“I don’t think I give a damn,” Leyden replied, leaning up against the railing next to Eugene. “I’m not going to complain about any attention from pretty women.”

Before Eugene could respond, a dull drone started overhead. Immediately, heads all over began looking up to the sky.

Planes.

Five of them flew overhead, dipping low over the bus as they descended toward a cluster of tents and buildings in the distance.

“Well, shit,” Oswalt laughed. “There’s the Royal Flying Corps.”

Eugene hadn’t seen so many planes as the ones that spread out beside the RFC base. They stretched across the grass in perfect lines, frozen and grand against the horizon. A few pilots milled about the rows of aircraft, talking with one another and occasionally gesturing to specific planes.

There was another whirring noise as two more planes took off. Eugene looked up and studied the two as they flew by. One of the planes was slightly more obtuse than the other and seemed to lack a machine gun, leaving him to infer what the purpose of each plane was.

Slowly, the bus rolled up to the edge of the base. The red-faced man from earlier stepped off and looked over the group, seeming to size them up before they were sent off. There was a sharpness to the way he scrutinized them, and Eugene was struck with the realization that there were many pilots he had seen before that would never make it back from the skies.

“Everybody off!”

People filed off the bus one by one before heading off in different directions. Eugene looked around once he stepped onto the grass, unsure where to go. A general group of people headed toward the cluster of buildings, where he assumed the different squadrons were housed, but he—nor none of the other Americans—knew where they had been assigned.

Weaving between a few of the new recruits who’d taken to milling about, Eugene made his way to the red-faced man, who was checking if every person had gotten off the bus.

“No one gets back on the bus,” the man said as soon as he saw Eugene approaching.

“I was just wondering where we should go to find our squadron.” Eugene fiddled with the strap on his bag, feeling the need to appear somewhat unassuming.

“Report to a senior officer,” the man replied, turning back to face the bus.

“Sledge!” a voice yelled behind Eugene, and he turned to see Oswalt and Leyden waiting for him a few hundred feet away. They waved for him to follow.

“Thank you, sir,” Eugene said quickly before hurrying off to join the others.

He heard only the drone of plane engines in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> those pesky americans and saying bus instead of coach


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s it like?”
> 
> “Never be pursued by the enemy and always coordinate with the other pilots of your flight. Turn tail and head back over Allied lines if things get too rough. Don’t try to find anyone you’ve shot down.” Sid turned over his last bit of biscuit in his hands. “But at least it’s not the trenches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not good with consistent updates like at all
> 
> press f to pay respects
> 
> anyway here it be

**June 1916**

“No. 6 Squadron, Flight B.”

The man peered over the papers he held at Eugene. There was a slight frown on his face as he reread what was printed on the paper.

“Replacement, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’d recommend you find the blokes that are in your same flight.” The man tucked the papers under his arm as he gave one final look at Eugene. “It’ll be easier, bonding-wise.”

Eugene nodded. “Thank you.”

As Eugene turned to head toward the buildings, he found Oswalt and Leyden waiting for him a few feet away.

“Same squadron and same flight, what’re the chances?” Oswalt joked, flashing a smile. “We three can’t seem to escape each other.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Leyden said, nudging Oswalt in the side.

“No one ever said it was good,” Eugene teased as they set off to the housing buildings.

The small, brick buildings would have blended into one another if small directory signs hadn’t been posted. Little shuttered windows let in light; though, as helpfully provided to them by Leyden, it was difficult to see anything from the outside in.

The usual crunch of gravel underneath shoes slowed, followed by a question from Leyden: “The hell’s that?”

Eugene glanced over to see a man looking over a map, mumbling to himself. In one hand, he held a pistol, which he occasionally used to jab at points on the map.

“Fuckin’ Huns,” he snapped, just loud enough for Eugene to catch his words

“You’re not in the trenches anymore, Haney,” a passerby commented. “No need for that map.”

Eugene failed to hear Haney’s response as Oswalt chose that moment to forge on ahead.

Each building was labelled with a small sign designating which squadron was housed there. However, the first one they stepped inside had each bed occupied. One of the men that pouring over an aerial map quietly informed them that Flights C and D were housed here.

“Try the building next door.”

“Couldn’t they have labelled that?” Leyden mumbled as they made their way over to the next building.

As they stepped inside, Eugene was met with a carbon copy of the Flights C and D building. Dull lights hung from the low ceiling, brightening anything that the natural lights filtering in from the windows could not. Beds flanked each wall, and while many of them were deserted, there were still personal items flung across them to show they’d been taken.

A couple, however, were currently occupied by people.

Three men sat on beds located in the far-left corner of the building. They immediately fell silent as the trio stepped into the room. Eugene took the quick opportunity to take in each of the individuals.

One dark-haired man peered over his shoulder toward the group, watching them with an impassive expression. Another man was sitting on the edge of his bed, turning over a pilot’s scarf in his hands. The final man stared at them, leaning back against the wall and looking that he owned the world for all he cared.

“Hello,” Leyden said as the door shut behind them.

“This still No. 6 Squadron?” Eugene asked. “We’re supposed to be in Flight B.”

“This is Flight B,” the second man confirmed, glancing back down toward the pilot’s scarf.

“Robert Oswalt.”

“Eugene Sledge.”

“Bill Leyden.”

“Y’all cadets?” the man asked.

“Second lieutenants,” Leyden corrected.

“Thank God, we don’t have to train nobody,” the third man muttered, stretching his arms over his head.

“That’s Snafu,” the second man supplied. “Over there’s De L’Eau, and I’m Captain Burgin.”

“There’s a couple bunks open.” De L’Eau motioned to the expanse that laid out before them. “Go ahead and find one and I can show you around.”

Though he was slightly perturbed by the men, Eugene was now losing the nervous energy that had kept him going up to this point. He found the nearest bunk and placed his things on top of it, trying to ignore the feeling of someone watching.

Turning around, he found Snafu looking at him. The world faded into a background static as Eugene met his gaze. Despite his disinterested expression, the other pilot didn’t look away; it was only De L’Eau’s voice that eventually pulled Eugene’s attention away from their bizarre staring contest.

“Follow me.”

The clouds overhead had managed to become darker in the time it took them to find the housing building, backed up by the distant rumble of thunder. Rain was imminent.

“We’ll be seeing some planes returning soon,” De L’Eau commented, looking up toward the sky.

“Can’t the planes take a little rain?” Leyden asked. “That’s what they taught us.”

“Sure, they can manage in rain and even some wind.” De L’Eau gave the trio a wry smile. “But there’s nothing rewarding about flying during a thunderstorm. If you don’t go down, some people don’t want to go up when there’s clouds for a long time.”

“I’m sure you’ll want to fly up there as soon as possible, Leyden,” Eugene said, giving the man a nudge in the side and receiving a gentle shove in response.

“All right now—” De L’Eau slowed to a stop— “over there is the canteen. Toilets are in that direction. If you lose sight of them, don’t ask for the bathrooms or any of that; just stick to toilets, it’ll save you the harassment from the Brits.”

“Do you know if we’ll be heading out soon?” Oswalt asked.

De L’Eau shrugged. “Probably sometime soon. They’ll mostly likely start you out on reconnaissance; it’s what they did with all the other Americans.”

“Are there any battles you served in before, um…” Eugene trailed off, groping for any first name he could offer.

“Jay.” De L’Eau started to head back toward Flight B’s building. “And I served in one battle—the Battle of Loos.”

“What did y’all do?” Eugene inquired.

“Reconnaissance mostly, some bombing. It was a pretty useless battle. Tried to push the Germans back. It kind of worked.” De L’Eau paused as they reached the door. “Allies had about double the casualties. You can decide for yourselves whether it was worth it or not.”

“Christ,” Leyden mumbled as they shuffled back into the building. Eugene hesitated on the threshold.

“Jay, do you know where No. 4 Squadron is?”

“It’s uh, off toward the canteen.” De L’Eau gestured in a vague direction as he sat back down on his bed.

Eugene turned and headed off as raindrops startled to pelt down. He tugged his jacket closer around him as he hurried toward the canteen. The grass began to squish under his boots as the water soaked into the ground.

Of course there would be planes landing before a storm kicked up; nobody in their right mind would want to land on a muddy airstrip.

“What are you doing out there in the rain, pilot?”

Eugene was hardly able to catch the voice as a clap of thunder echoed over the airbase. He turned toward the canteen to see two pilots settled down at a table, sheltered under a small roof that stuck out from the side of the canteen building.

“Looking for No. 4 Squadron, sir,” Eugene replied, stepping closer to the table.

“They’ll be in that building over there.” Eugene couldn’t help but pause, startled by the American accent of the man.

“Thank you, sir.” Eugene nodded before hurrying back through the rain to the squadron building.

The door squeaked on its hinges as Eugene pulled it open and stepped inside. Unsurprisingly, the building was filled with pilots hiding from the rain. A few glanced up in his direction before returning to their previous engagements, whether it be reading, talking, or even mending a scarf.

“Gene!” a voice shouted from the end of the room.

A solid body slammed into Eugene, pushing him into the wall with a soft “oof” and down onto the ground. A pair of hands slapped against his knees and he looked up to see a familiar face.

“Now how in the hell did they let you get on the boat to England?” Sid asked, a wide grin on his face.

“I could ask you the same,” Eugene retorted playfully, shoving Sid’s hands away.

“When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago,” Eugene replied, pushing himself onto his feet.

“Can you sods take your conversation somewhere else?” a British pilot suddenly snapped, looking up from his book to glare at the two Americans.

“I think Miller has a great idea there, Phillips,” a dark-haired man spoke up. “Sleeping beauty here is trying to get his rest and he doesn’t need anyone to wake him up.”

A blond man nestled under a blanket grunted in response.

“C’mon, let’s go to the canteen and see if we can’t get anything out of the cooks. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Sid led the way out, speeding through the rain to the shelter of the canteen. The two pilots from earlier had disappeared, and as the wind picked up and caused the rain to fall at a slant, Eugene didn’t have to wonder why.

It took a little finagling on Sid’s end, but he managed to convince the cooks to hand over a few biscuits before supper. They were either a day old or the Royal Flying Corps didn’t have the best food for pilots, but it was food nonetheless and Eugene was thankful to eat something.

“What squadron are you in?” Sid asked after a few minutes of silent eating.

“Six.”

Sid nodded. “They always seemed to be a good group of guys. Heard they get the job done, at least.”

Eugene nodded. “They fought in the Battles of Loos.”

Sid shook his head. “I don’t envy them.”

“Have you been in any battles yet?” Eugene asked, finishing off the rest of his last biscuit.

“Not really,” Sid said after a moment. “No. 4 Squadron hasn’t been called out since I got here. Mostly reconnaissance flights...have been caught in a few dogfights, though.”

“What’s it like?”

“Never be pursued by the enemy and always coordinate with the other pilots of your flight. Turn tail and head back over Allied lines if things get too rough. Don’t try to find anyone you’ve shot down.” Sid turned over his last bit of biscuit in his hands. “But at least it’s not the trenches.”

“Sledge!” a voice yelled from the entrance to the canteen.

Eugene looked up to see Burgin walking over to the table, followed by a very grumpy-looking Snafu.

“Once this rain stops, you and Snafu are going on a reconnaissance flight. You’ll be taking a few aerial pictures over Belgium. These pictures are only for the Lieutenant-Colonel but any effort to not fuck up is appreciated.” Burgin sent Snafu a look before leaving.

“You better get your ass onto the airfield as soon as the rain lets up,” Snafu warned, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“Which plane will we be on?” Eugene asked before Snafu could walk off.

“Armstrong Whitworth F.K.8.”

With that, Snafu stalked out of the canteen before Eugene could say anything else. He watched the man’s retreating figure, his mind whirling. Granted, Eugene knew next to nothing about Snafu, but something in his gut told him it would be a less than pleasant flight.

“Reconnaissance on your first day,” Sid said with a smile. “At least it’s an easy run; it’ll get you warmed up for everything else that comes with the territory.”

“If the rain lets up.” Eugene peeked out the window and up toward the dark clouds. The storm did not look like it would hold back anytime soon.

“Then you’ll get some time to yourself.” Sid stood up and zipped up his jacket. “I reckon we should probably head back before the cooks get too upset. Ready?”

With a deep breath, Eugene pushed himself up from the table.

“Ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, Eugene spotted a jagged scar tearing through the landscape. As Snafu guided the plane farther south, he could see more of them, zigzagging their way through the grass and turning the area around them a latticework of dead browns and greys.
> 
> The trenches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how'd i manage to upload a week later? hell if i know.
> 
> i'm workin on getting the chapters to be longer but it is a slow process so far,, but this one is a wee bit longer so!

**June 1916**

The rain continued into the night and Eugene fell asleep to the soft pattering against window panes and the quiet murmur of British pilots finding community in talking and smoking cigarettes.

While the bed certainly wasn’t the most comfortable—not by a long stretch in comparison to his back in Mobile—Eugene drifted into a deep sleep quickly. The white noise in the background made it hard to believe that just a few hundred miles away, there was a war waging between empires.

By the time Eugene woke up, the rain had ceased, and the clouds were parted just enough for shafts of sunlight to break through. The ambient noise outside had picked up since the previous night, filled largely by the sound of people talking and the distant whirring of airplane propellers.

The sleeping quarters had emptied out and the beds made. Eugene blearily looked around, wondering why the flights hadn’t been awoken by yelling or any orders to wake up and go through any training exercises.

“Mornin’,” an oozing voice suddenly said to Eugene’s left, causing him to jerk back.

Snafu was crouched right next to the bed, watching Eugene with those pale eyes. He proffered a small flask, a small piece of chocolate, and a cigarette.

“I don’t smoke,” Eugene replied, but accepted the flask and chocolate.

“Yeah?” Snafu gave a crooked smile. It did nothing to soothe Eugene’s jumpy nerves.

“What’s in this?” Eugene asked, shaking the flask.

“Breakfast,” Snafu said, standing up.

“Breakfast?”

“You don’t wanna go up in that sky with a full stomach,” Snafu snatched his scarf off his bed. “Unless you want stomach problems, maybe even throwin’ it up over the side of the plane.”

Deciding neither option sounded terrible pleasant, Eugene quickly ate the chocolate bar before taking a swig from the flask. He coughed as the taste of alcohol hit the back of his throat.

Why would anyone drink gin so early in the morning?

“You get used to it.” Snafu seemed to read Eugene’s mind. “I’ll meet you at the plane.”

With that, Snafu disappeared outside.

Eugene finished the gin over the course of time it took him to get dressed. He couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the tang that now persisted at the back of his throat, but at least now he felt more relaxed than when he woke up.

A few pilots were strolling around as Eugene stepped outside, though most of them were congregating at the canteen. Sparing them one last glance, he headed off to the rows of airplanes.

It took several minutes of wandering amongst the planes before Eugene finally spotted Snafu. He’d heard of Armstrong Whitworth F.K.8s, but as far as he knew, they were new. He was slightly surprised that Farnborough even had three of them.

“Took you long enough,” Snafu muttered as Eugene approached the plane. He shoved a bulky camera into Eugene’s hands before turning and hoisting himself into the front seat.

Following suit, Eugene pulled himself up into the rear seat, his back to Snafu, and buckled up, adjusting the camera into a safer and more comfortable position. A brief bout of nervousness bubbled up in his stomach as he looked up at the machine gun mounted in front of him. If anyone tried to target the tail of plane, it would be up to him to shoot them down first.

“Let’s go,” Snafu grumbled. “I fuckin’ hate reconnaissance.”

The plane jerked slightly before moving forward. Eugene watched as they passed the other planes and saw a few pilots lazily wave to them.

“Pay attention to where we’re heading,” Snafu yelled over the sound of the propeller. “We go over Belgium often.”

While the ground of the landing strip wasn’t muddy, it didn’t exactly look dry either. As Snafu kicked up the speed and the plane accelerated, Eugene mumbled a quiet prayer under his breath.

The United States didn’t have any two-seaters back home. He had to trust Snafu wouldn’t fuck up the flight.

The drone of the engine became a constant as they passed over the last of England and the English Channel. The water spread out below them, sparkling blue under the sunlight as the clouds slowly disappeared. Despite the chill that forced Eugene to adjust his scarf, the feeling of sun on his skin was welcome.

A surge of excitement and adrenaline surged through Eugene as the plane leveled out. Looking around, he remembered why he’d decided to become a pilot. Despite all the training, it felt like the thrill of finally taking flight and looking down upon the ground would never go away.

Before long, the blue water transformed into land. It looked peaceful, dotted with trees and what looked to be the occasional home. As Eugene moved to turn on the camera, he allowed himself to think of how nice it must be down there, basking under the sun without rushing cold air stealing away the warmth.

Then, Eugene spotted a jagged scar tearing through the landscape. As Snafu guided the plane farther south, he could see more of them, zigzagging their way through the grass and turning the area around them a latticework of dead browns and greys.

The trenches.

Snafu dipped lower in the plane and Eugene shifted to take a picture. He waited until the plane leveled out before taking another.

The same pattern continued until they were roughly one hundred feet above the trenches. The anxiety began to grip at Eugene while he took the photos. They were right within range of anti-aircraft fire.

Yet there was nothing but silence from the trenches. No fire of machine guns, no yelling, no loud cracking of anti-aircraft guns, not even the whining noise of a fighter plane headed in their direction.

It seemed too quiet.

Slowly, Snafu brought the plane back up to a higher altitude before swinging around and heading north again. Eugene packed the camera away again and watched the trenches grow farther away.

Dimly, he wondered when the firefight would begin again, when all the troops hunkered down would be forced to engage.

Eugene had heard about the lapses in fighting, about “live and let live.” He knew this wasn’t uncommon during a stalemate.

The returning flight felt much longer. Minutes dragged by as they passed over the English Channel. In the distance, Eugene could see ships cruising through the water, unhurried in their travel. He wondered how many people were aboard, controlling the huge machine or spending their time going through mundane tasks.

Eventually, the plane began to ease its way downward. Farmland sped by underneath them, growing ever closer during their descent.

The drone of more planes came from somewhere overhead and Eugene looked up to see a cluster of Sopwith 1-1/2 Strutters streaking overhead.

Eugene looked back down as the ground rapidly rose up to meet the F.K.8. The plane bounced slightly as it hit the ground. Carefully, Snafu slowed the plane down and steered it back to its place amongst the planes.

“Get those pictures to Lieutenant-Colonel Haldane,” Snafu said as soon as they hopped down from the F.K.8.

“Where can I find him?” Eugene asked as he adjusted the strap of the camera into a more comfortable position.

“Who knows?” Snafu replied, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one and took a drag before looking back toward Eugene, realizing the redhead had not yet left. “He walks around a lot with Hillbilly, just ask people.”

Snafu took off walking and Eugene didn’t bother to ask any more questions. If Snafu wasn’t in the mood to keep talking, then Eugene wouldn’t push his luck.

It took a great deal of asking around before Eugene was finally about to find someone who had recently seen Haldane and was actually willing to help him track the lieutenant-colonel down.

To Eugene’s surprise, it was the same dark-haired man that had ushered him and Sid out of the No. 4 Squadron quarters the previous day.

“You got a name?” the man asked after a few minutes of searching.

“Eugene Sledge.”

“Phillips talked about you,” the man commented, “said you’d be coming out soon.”

“Good things, hopefully,” Eugene joked.

“He said you were a fine pilot.”

“Well, you got a name too, or are you going to keep me in the dark?” Eugene asked, keeping his tone light.

“Name’s Robert Leckie.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Leckie replied, followed by what felt like an afterthought: “You too.”

“Is there anything I should know about Lieutenant-Colonel Haldane?” Eugene looked around the buildings that surrounded them. As far as he could tell, they all looked the same, so he was a bit unsure as to how Leckie knew exactly where to go.

“He’s nice and everyone calls him Ack-Ack,” Leckie supplied. “Angels sing when he’s around or some Bible shit like that.”

At Eugene’s startled face, Leckie inquired, “You a believer?”

Eugene nodded.

“Think you can ask God to shoot all the Huns from the skies?” Leckie’s voice had a venomous edge to it. “It sure would be appreciated.”

“What do you believe in?” Eugene asked.

Leckie sighed and slowed to a stop.

“I believe in ammunition.”

Leckie pointed to a couple men settled down at a table just outside a nicer brick building.

“That’ll be Ack-Ack right there.” Leckie turned to head off. “It was nice talking to you, Sledge.”

Eugene watched Leckie as he disappeared around the corner of a building. He looked back toward Haldane—Ack-Ack _—_ and started toward the two men. As he grew closer, a jolt of realization struck him.

They were the two men that had been sitting outside the canteen last night.

Eugene probably should’ve known who they were before blundering into them.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Haldane?” Eugene asked as he approached the men.

Ack-Ack looked up from an aerial map that showed the Western Front. Though his eyes showed some weariness, the man still managed to radiate a feeling of energy and warmth.

“Name and rank?”

“Eugene Sledge, 2nd Lieutenant, sir.”

“How can I help you, Sledge?” Ack-Ack smiled.

“I have pictures of the trenches in Belgium, sir.” Eugene lifted up the camera as he spoke.

“Thank you very much,” Ack-Ack said. “Lieutenant-Colonel Jones will be able to take that from you.”

The man sitting next to Ack-Ack extended a hand and Eugene gave him the camera. While a bit rougher around the edges, Jones didn’t look overtly surly or sour.

“As you were,” Ack-Ack said, looking back down to the maps. Jones eased himself to his feet and stepped into the brick building.

As Eugene walked back, the hunger he’d previously shoved aside began to rear its ugly head. He found his way back to the canteen, hoping breakfast was still being served and the cooks wouldn’t turn him away.

As he stepped inside, an uncertain feeling twisted in Eugene’s gut.

Snafu and Burgin were the only people seated in the canteen besides a pilot that had tucked himself into a corner, nursing a cup of coffee. They talked in a wild contrast of voice levels, with Burgin maintaining a calmer, softer tone and Snafu talking loud enough that the other pilot surely knew at least half of the conversation.

Fortunately, the cooks still had some breakfast leftover, even if it was a biscuit drenched in artificial honey and something that Eugene guessed was supposed to be scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, Burgin noticed his presence and invited Eugene over to the table.

“How was your first reconnaissance flight?” Burgin asked as Eugene sat down.

“Nice to be up in the sky again.” Eugene poked at the slightly rubbery eggs with a fork before finally taking a bite. They tasted about as much as scrambled eggs as they looked.

“I got word that we have a squadron scouting patrol tomorrow,” Burgin said. “Checkin’ out the area around the Somme.”

“Allies have some great offensive strategy,” Snafu added, “an’ we have to know what it all looks like.”

The biscuit and honey weren’t much better than the eggs.

“What time?” Eugene asked.

Burgin shrugged. “Ack-Ack hasn’t given a final word on when we’ll head out. Probably won’t be first thing in the mornin’, though.”

“Burgie!” a voice called from the doorway to the canteen.

“Major Haney.” Burgin pushed himself up. “Probably should go see what he needs.”

Snafu hummed in acknowledgement, pulling out another cigarette. Eugene watched as he breathed out a steady rush of smoke, absentmindedly tearing apart what remained of his biscuit.

“You gonna eat that, boo?” Snafu questioned suddenly. “Or are you just gonna stare?”

Eugene felt his face flush as he mumbled a quick apology and ate the rest of the biscuit. He gave a quick excuse about needing to grab something from his bed before departing the canteen—he was content with saving himself from any further embarrassment.

As Eugene hurried out, the image of Snafu’s smirk burned into his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to be creative with leckie's "i believe in" line but.....i couldn't really think of anything that had the same effect as ammunition. and ammunition worked w/ biplanes n shit so.... ye


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the flight finally turned north, Eugene felt a rush of relief.
> 
> It didn’t last long.
> 
> The normal drone of whirring became louder than usual. With a jolt, Eugene realized the flight had company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i crawl out of my hole in the ground after five years hello

**June 1916**

It was mid-afternoon by the time Burgie summoned Flight B to the airfield, pursued by a few stragglers from Flight A. The appearance of the sun, coupled with the lack of clouds, dried out the field and made for a much safer landing strip.

“Just follow Burgie,” De L’Eau advised as they grew closer to the planes.

Eugene’s hands felt like they were buzzing. He was glad he forwent eating lunch as his stomach churned with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. He knew roughly where the River Somme was located based on the aerial maps, and the jagged rows of trenches were certainly nothing to laugh about. Trouble was brewing on the front line.

“Nieuport 11s,” Burgin announced as they reached the planes.

“Aren’t those French?” Leyden asked.

“Looks like they’ve been painted over.” Oswalt nodded to the target symbol on the side of the plane that was British instead of the usual French pattern.

Burgin directed each of the pilots to one of the planes. Eugene pulled himself up and into the cockpit. He kept an eye on the others, quickly adjusting his flight cap and scarf to make sure they wouldn’t fall loose.

Soon, the rest of the flight’s propellers began to kick up and Eugene followed suit. Burgin was the first to roll out, followed by De L’Eau and Snafu. Carefully, Eugene guided his own Nieuport after them.

It took only a few moments for the months of training to come back and override any anxiety Eugene felt. As they rolled onto the airstrip, everyone fell into formation. With one final wave, the flight was moving forward and into the air.

As they flew over the channel, Eugene couldn’t help but notice a greater tension present than during his flight with Snafu. It was like a virus, making its way from one pilot to the other. He wondered if there was something Burgin wasn’t telling them.

France spread out beneath them, followed by the jagged rows of trenches. Eugene peeked down, allowing himself to imagine being down there, stuck in the mud with the rats and food that made what the pilots were served by the RFC seem high-class.

No, Eugene couldn’t fathom being down there in the trenches.

Burgin led the flight closer to ground level. Eugene scanned the formation of the trenches, where the larger artillery was located, and if there were any visible mass troop movements. The slightest information could be beneficial, especially if the offensive was to be as impressive as Snafu implied.

After many long minutes of flying and observing, Eugene could only really piece together that the troops would attempt to climb up the sides of the trenches and charge, which frankly didn’t seem highly intelligent. There had to be more to that plan than the pilot could see. Simply sending the soldiers across No Man’s Land would just result in a mass slaughter.

Eventually, Burgin guided the flight up and around to the west. Eugene chanced a glance back to watch the trenches grow smaller and farther away. When he refocused his vision, something immediately caught his eye, stirring up a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

Compared to Farnsborough, the number of planes sitting on the patch of flat land was very few. However, as Eugene kept looking, a couple more planes landed.

They were sending planes out for the operation.

From what Eugene could tell, they weren’t just reconnaissance planes. He spotted a few bombers and combat planes in the mix. The pilots here weren’t just going to gather intelligence—they were going to provide air support.

Flight B didn’t land. Burgin led them over the small base and farther west before turning southeast.

The flight slowly turned out to be longer than any previous. While Eugene supposed he should be thankful that it wasn’t overcast and rainy, being up in the air for so long left a chill nipping at his nose. Alongside that, he wasn’t sure how much longer the Nieuports could continue without landing. While they were rather sophisticated aircraft, his general lack of knowledge on French aircraft left Eugene hoping that Burgin knew how long the planes would endure.

When the flight finally turned north, Eugene felt a rush of relief.

It didn’t last long.

The normal drone of whirring became louder than usual. With a jolt, Eugene realized the flight had company.

Pulling his plane out of formation allowed Eugene to catch a glimpse of a German Albatros model. He carefully eased off the throttle, trying to slow just enough for any more planes to pass over him without stalling. While the tactic wasn’t foolproof, it allowed him to spot two more planes.

The snap of machine gun fire rang in Eugene’s ears as an Albatros moved toward Leyden. He grappled with the controls to propel his Nieuport forward with a rapid gain of altitude. Hopefully, if he managed to react quickly enough, he would be able to pass over the Germans, where he would have the upper hand.

Eugene managed to bypass two of the German fighters, but the third one caught onto his act and rose with him. Cursing softly, Eugene fired a few rounds at an Albatros below him before swinging wide to spot the enemy behind him.

The German pilot did an excellent job of maneuvering his aircraft, timing it so Eugene only caught glimpses of the yellow wings. With a jerk that Eugene distantly thought probably wasn’t good on the plane, he forced the aircraft into a tight turn that sent him flying in the opposite direction. As Eugene faced the German pilot, he fired a round of bullets at the plane.

The bullets only managed to hit part of the canvas of the Albatros and Eugene pulled the plane up just fast enough to avoid receiving a smattering of bullets himself.

A loud bang resonated through the air while Eugene pulled a tight arc to turn the Nieuport back around. The Albatros that had been pursuing him no longer had its propeller and flames licked up from the engine. Eugene just managed to catch a glimpse of Snafu turning his own plane around.

One plane down.

Suddenly, one of the Albatroses violently dipped toward the ground. Eugene watched as Burgin’s plane flew up and away. The Albatros soon fell into a tailspin as it tumbled to the earth below.

Two planes down.

The last German pilot seemed to be immediately aware of the absence of the other planes as he shifted the plane east and barreled forward. Burgin chose to guide his plane back in the direction of England, with De L’Eau following his example.

Snafu had other ideas.

Without warning, the pilot went after the retreating German, firing at the Albatros with a reckless abandon. Eugene watched as the German pilot attempted to avoid the bullets, but Snafu was relentless. It didn’t take even another minute of firing before he met his mark and the engine of the Albatros burst into flame.

A sick feeling brewed in Eugene’s chest as he pulled his gaze away from the returning Nieuport.

The man had been a retreating pilot.

The flight back felt colder than the few winters up north Eugene had experienced. His entire body felt numb as the image of the retreating Albatros played through his mind.

_ He was an enemy, _ Eugene tried to reconcile.

It didn’t help.

***

For his part, Burgin didn’t seem terribly pleased with Snafu’s decision. After the flight landed and dragged themselves out of the planes, the captain fixed Snafu with an exhausted look. Yet, he said nothing, instead walking away, saying something about reporting to Ack-Ack.

“He needs sleep,” De L’Eau commented over Eugene’s shoulder as they watched Burgin’s retreating figure. “Snafu usually doesn’t wear him out this quickly.”

Eugene looked to Snafu. He was already walking away from the planes, steadily working his way through a cigarette. Oswalt trailed behind him at a distance while Leyden gave Eugene a meaningful “hurry the hell up” look.

“Burgin ain’t usually like this?” Eugene asked as he started toward the squadron buildings.

“He’s pretty good at tolerating Snafu’s choices of dealing with the Huns,” De L’Eau said. “Burgie’s as tired of them as any Brit fighting the war. Some days, though, he’s fine with letting them go. If he had any more energy than now, Snafu would probably receive something more than just a glare.”

Eugene hummed his acknowledgement as they reached No. 6 Squadron’s buildings. Truthfully, a nap sounded amazing right now. However, he didn’t think he would manage falling asleep with the crawling feeling that had taken up residence under his skin.

So, he didn’t go. While De L’Eau continued his journey into the quarters, Eugene turned around and wandered back toward the canteen. Supper wouldn’t be served in another few hours, but he banked on the hope that at least one other familiar face would be hanging around.

Eugene supposed he was in luck.

Sitting down together at a table were Ack-Ack, Jones, and Burgin. Eugene came to an abrupt halt, afraid he’d stumbled into a confidential moment.

As the three of them looked up, Eugene become acutely aware of what De L’Eau meant about Burgin needing rest. Compared to Ack-Ack and Jones, he looked incredibly worn down. Even despite keeping up with basic hygiene, in his eyes he looked exhausted. Eugene had a feeling Snafu probably hadn’t helped any.

“Sledge.” It was a surprise to hear Ack-Ack warmly greet him first.

“Sir.”

“How was your first dogfight?” Ack-Ack asked.

“It was a surprise,” Eugene admitted.

“Germans are good at that,” Jones muttered, flipping through a few photos.

“Sledge did well,” Burgin affirmed. “One of the better first fights I’ve seen.”

Ack-Ack smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

Jones looked up from his photos. “Burgie, we’ll be flying out tomorrow at 0800. Expect further training and reconnaissance once we reach the base.”

With that, Ack-Ack pushed himself up from the table.

“I hear supper is supposed to good tonight,” Ack-Ack said. “Something nicer before we fly over to France.”

Jones gathered up the photos. “Have a nice night, men.”

With that, the two lieutenant-colonels left the canteen. Burgin ran a hand through his hair, shifting in his seat to face Eugene.

“You should get some rest,” Eugene said quietly.

A hint of a smile crossed Burgin’s face. “You sound like Jay.”

“His suggestion.”

“Suppose I should,” Burgin mused. “Snafu’s probably raising hell elsewhere, so the quarters should be quiet.”

“We’ll see you at supper, then.”

Burgin nodded.

“Be ready for tomorrow, Sledge. I expect it will be interestin’.”


End file.
